Pessimist
by Concentration Maple-ation
Summary: (n.) a person who habitually sees or anticipates the worst or is disposed to be gloomy


**A/N: I was reading a fic that had Const in it or something and at that point I realized how much I really really like him. He's one of my favorite characters, honestly.**

**I went and researched kleptomania and it said that people steal stuff even though it would be absolutely useless to them, so I had to go and change up some stuff to make it sound useless... But uh... It turns out it still sounds like the things were useful.**

**Anyways I hope you enjoyed and maybe this will be a full fledged story! I'm gonna try and start updating again but I won't make any promises...**

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My name is Constantinos Brakus.

Yeah, yeah, I know it's a pretty sucky way to start off a story. But  
this is my story, and my story is my life, which, if you couldn't  
conclude already, sucks terribly.

I was brought from Hell, into the lives of parents who couldn't care  
less about anything that didn't have to do with themselves, and was  
dumped in a horrible, rotten, terrible, atrocious, awful, dreadful,  
monstrous, obnoxious, repulsive, and very, very unpleasant school;  
Bullworth Academy.

This place is filled with bullies and really not-likeable people, the  
staff treat us like demonspawn instead of students (which is actually  
the case for most of the pupils here), the Prefects have sworn on  
their demonic parents' graves to kill us, the food isn't even edible,  
and about three quarters of the entire town's population either was,  
in, or should be in the asylum.

I'm probably one of the few sane people in this school, really.  
Everyone can run around in these conditions with smiles and good  
grades and friends and actual relationships and aspirations for  
futures they can't even get from an education like this. No one even  
thinks twice about it. No one even thinks that maybe _this entire town_  
_really really sucks._

Trying to make people think isn't even an option either because the  
group of people who aren't insane are the only ones with brains to  
think. No one thinks and even if they do attempt to recognize  
anything, it's when it's way too late, way after they've made their  
poor choice and they're in jail at the age of 55.

Ah, poor choices.

I have to admit I'm not all that perfect either. Because if I was,  
then maybe I wouldn't think of ways to either  
A) Murder everyone in the room/building/campus/town (and almost carry  
it out).  
or B) Murder myself (making sure to leave a heartfelt note, listing  
everyone I hate and those who actually were in the very very small  
group of somewhat sane people along with me to remind me that I'm not  
the only one hated by a god).

And if I was perfect, maybe I wouldn't, oh, I don't know, have police  
chasing my ass down almost every day because I wanted something to  
waste away hours that won't even matter anymore as I'm dead in the  
Harrington House lawn at 2 in the morning. It's not my fault that this  
comic was just so shiny and I just happened to find myself running out  
of the store with it. I only noticed from the sudden rush of anxiety I  
felt afterwards. Still, isn't my fault.

And it also wasn't my fault that I was walking through school and I  
look across the hall only to see that fat chick Eunice with a box of  
chocolates in her hand. It was only instinct that I run at full speed  
toward her, nab the box, and take off towards the boys bathroom (where  
she, being a girl, couldn't reach me) before her brainless mind could  
comprehend anything. She didn't need it anyways, she had enough  
blubber to last the winter. She didn't need it and I was doing her and  
hungry people everywhere justice, right? The Prefects weren't after  
me, but halfway through the box (I hadn't even noticed I was eating  
it) the new kid came in and beat me up just to get them back. I didn't  
realize I was so hungry until he punched me in the gut.

I went to sleep (kind of, if it counts at 3 in the morning) still in  
pain and still hungry that night, and I realized that if I hadn't  
eaten at least half of the box I would've died. Which, actually, might  
have not been so bad. It would at least prove my innocence for my  
logical thinking that everyone perceives as "rude".

Oh, but being beat up for having a psychological disorder (that's what  
my mom told me I had before she screamed at her makeup for whatever  
reason) isn't even the worst of it. I was the unlucky guy to be given  
two jobs at the school besides learning; school paper writer and  
school mascot. What positive thing is there to write and why cheer on  
a team that always _always _loses? There's no point to have a school  
paper or even a mascot. Ivan tries to be optimistic and says, "well at  
least it isn't cleaning the cafeteria!"

Looking at it either way, it still sucks horrifically. The Jocks pick/  
beat up on me mercilessly and when I'm in the process of writing the  
paper, it's either stolen, shredded, stained, and/or graffiti-ed on.  
and _I'm_ the one that gets punished. _Me_.

4 years and hopefully I'll be out of this hellhole. Hopefully I will  
never see the same faces ever ever again. Hey, maybe I'll even be dead  
by the time I get out of here. If that's the case, what's the point of  
even going on with this shitty excuse for a life?

What's the point anymore?


End file.
